


Ho Ho, Ho Ling's

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Meetings, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Suicidal Thoughts, a bit fluffy, some "Christmas Carol" references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "Sherlock and John meet in a different way" AU. It's Christmas Eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ho Ho, Ho Ling's

The beige walls of his depressing bed-sit were closing in on him tonight. He opened the drawer of the cheap desk and looked at his SIG Sauer P226 for a long time. He had no life, no real family, no friends, no prospects. One well-placed bullet and he’d be out of it. He sighed. It seemed somehow… disrespectful… to do it on Christmas Eve. Whoever found his body would have to deal with it. It might put a damper on their holiday. He’d wait and do it on New Year’s Eve instead. That wasn’t such a sentimental holiday. His mouth quirked into a bitter smile. He’d buy a bottle of very expensive champagne, go to the Tower Bridge, toast his own miserable life, and do it there. He’d fall into the water after he pulled the trigger. Less messy. He always tried to be considerate of others, especially at Christmas. 

"Bah, humbug," John muttered softly to himself. Then he closed the drawer. Out of sight was probably better. 

Ironically, _A Christmas Carol_ had always been one of John’s favorite stories growing up. He loved all the film versions of it as well. The one with George C. Scott was his favorite. He also had a DVD of _A Muppet Christmas Carol_ that he occasionally watched in secret, alone, during the season. If he had tears in his eyes at the end, no-one needed to know but him and his glass of Jameson’s. 

Until quite recently, though, he had never believed that anyone could truly hate Christmas. Until this year. Now he understood. Even when he had been in Afghanistan, surrounded by blood and death, they had taken a quick break from surgery to toast the holiday with some surprisingly good eggnog the nurses had concocted. He had stood in the desert, looking at the stars, and thought about the child and the three kings and Christmas past. 

Even during the times growing up when their dad hadn’t come home drunk from the pub until Christmas morning, he and Harry and their Mum had managed to put their family chaos aside. Mum was a good cook, and he had loved her Christmas cake, the roast, the Yorkshire pudding. Even when it was just him and Harry, having Christmas dinner with the other alcoholics and their families in one of the endless rehab facilities over the years, he had managed to enjoy the season. Even if his celebration was just going alone to midnight mass on Christmas eve, the music and the incense lifted him out of himself. He wasn’t a Christian, exactly, but he did believe in tradition and in something beyond himself. Sitting in a church, preferably one with stained glass and incense, and listening to the ancient words of scripture and the old carols always reconnected him to that sense of some larger community shared by people over the centuries. It was a community of story as well, shared by Scrooge and Miss Piggy, _Love Actually_ and _It’s a Wonderful Life_. 

But this year was different. Now he understood the people who hated Christmas. He had been out of QAMH for a week. That was Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital Millbank to civilians. Not that it mattered either way. No-one, military or civilian, had come to visit him during the five weeks he spent in hospital recovering from a shoulder wound that had nearly ended his life. All of his Army mates were still deployed overseas, his parents were dead, and his only remaining family consisted of one sister. Harry, short for Harriet, was a raging alchoholic. He had told her before he deployed the last time that he would never see her again until she was clean and sober, so he hadn’t been surprised that she didn't visit. They hadn’t spoken in two years. 

So, what to do tonight instead of kill himself? He couldn’t stay here or he would succumb to the siren call of the SIG. Church it was, then. He could kill two birds with one stone. He would enter that community of Christmas past and present one more time. Say goodbye to Christmas future and make his peace with… whatever. 

John took the tube, then walked from the station to St. Marylebone’s. He stood at the bottom of the steps. He listened to the organ music coming out of the church. “Angels We Have Heard on High.” The stained glass glowed, spilling jewels of light onto the pavement. He looked up at the large round window over the door. Mary, all blue and gold, had her arms protectively around her chubby baby, a secret smile on her face. Families passed him, laughing, shivering in the cold, going up the steps. A father with his hand on his tall son’s back. A mother pulling down a bright red cap on a child's small head. Abruptly he turned away and limped off down the street. 

The frigid wind blew the first flakes of snow over damp pavement. He was alone, invalided out of a career he loved as an Army surgeon, currently unemployed. He had a limp and an intermittent tremor in his left hand, so he would never be a surgeon of any sort again. He moved forward, not really toward anything. He just walked. It was too cold to stand still. 

He turned from Marylebone onto Baker Street. He saw lights behind a large plate-glass window on the other side of the street. Someone opened a door beside the window, and tantalizing smells of food wafted into the air. John suddenly realized he was hungry. He hadn’t really felt hungry all day until now. It was late on Christmas Eve, after eleven p.m. What was open this late? He crossed the street and stood in the light of the big window. Ho Ling’s, large red letters on the glass proclaimed. Best Cantonese and Sichuan! John could see through the window that the place was absolutely packed with people, so maybe it was good. Or maybe there just wasn’t anyplace else open on Christmas Eve. He saw big tables of families laughing and toasting each other. He almost turned away. But he was hungry. Sod it, he thought, and opened the door. 

"Come in, come in,” a small Oriental woman beckoned him. She looked around and shook her head. “You may have to wait. No tables now.” 

John sighed, and leaned heavily on his cane. He had walked a long way, and his leg was on fire. Maybe he should leave. Eating alone on Christmas Eve was depressing, anyway. He turned and looked outside. The snow was falling heavily now. He should probably get back to the bed-sit while he still could. 

"He can share my table, Xiu Mei,” a baritone voice rumbled close to him. John turned back around to see a tall man standing beside the hostess. Thirties. Long, dark hair. Swathed in a dark coat in spite of the fact that the restaurant was warm. 

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Xiu Mei said. “So kind of you.” The man rolled his eyes. 

"I am not _kind_ , as you well know.” Xiu Mei just giggled and shook her head. 

"I don’t want to impose,” John said. He didn’t want to share a table with a stranger. Didn’t want to make conversation. He now regretted coming out at all. 

"Don’t be ridiculous,” the man said, his voice impatient. “Although your limp is psychosomatic, that doesn’t mean it's not painful. Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

"What? How could you possibly…” Just then a group of several people opened the door. John, the man, and the hostess were blocking the entryway. 

"Share my table,” the man said. “I’m bored. I’ll tell you how I knew, and you can tell me about Afghanistan. Or to piss off, if you like.” He turned, his coat swirling out behind him. 

"This way,” the hostess said. She smiled at John and inclined her head toward the retreating figure. “Yes, he’s always like that.” She turned. John followed. 

John sat down heavily at the table for two, and looked for somewhere to put his cane. 

The other man put out his hand with an imperious gesture. “I’ll put it on the floor. It’s totally unnecessary, you know.” 

John handed him the cane. “Who the… hell… are you? What makes you think I don’t really have an injury? And how could you know about Afghanistan?” 

"My name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. I know about your leg because your limp is really bad when you walk, but you didn’t ask Xiu Mei for a chair when she told you you’d have to wait. You stood like you’d forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. Your haircut and stance suggest military. Your face is tanned, even in winter in London, but no tan above the wrist. Deployment, not vacation. Where would a soldier experience a traumatizing incident and get a tan recently? Afghanistan or Iraq. Obvious." 

“That’s… amazing…,” John stopped when a server put down soup and a plate in front of him. “Wait, I didn’t order.” 

“I ordered for you when I saw you come in,” said Sherlock. “You’ll like it.” 

John just looked at him, flabbergasted. “How did you know I’d stay?” 

Sherlock smiled a slight smile and shrugged. “Army surgeon invalided home from Afghanistan. Alone on Christmas Eve. No close family. Why wouldn’t you want to share with someone as obviously alone and trying to avoid the whole holiday nonsense. Elementary.” 

“How could you _possibly_ know I’m a surgeon?” 

“I don’t know. I observe. Your clothes are a bit rumpled, but your hands are immaculately tended. You look kind, intelligent, and very tired. I wasn’t positive, of course, but in combination with my other observations, those hands say Army surgeon.” 

“That’s _amazing_ ,” John said again. 

“That’s not what people usually say,” Sherlock said. 

“What do they usually say?” 

"Piss off.” 

John laughed. He reached a hand out over the food. "Watson. I'm John Watson." Sherlock reached a long-fingered hand out and clasped his. They ate for several moments in companionable silence, then began to talk. John found himself talking about Afghanistan. The other man asked intelligent questions. They talked about history, politics, war, bullet wounds, blood stains, and a score of other things. 

Sherlock finally gestured to John's shoulder. ”You were actually wounded, of course. Shoulder?” 

John just nodded. 

"Is that what is leading you to believe that your life is over? That you’ll never practice as a surgeon again?” 

John didn’t bother to say “amazing” again, although it was. 

"No,” he said, trying to keep his voice level, to keep the bitterness out. He was actually enjoying dinner with this unusual man and he didn’t want to spoil it. “The shoulder doesn’t bother me much anymore. But I can’t stand for hours on the leg and my hand is never steady for long. So surgery is out.” 

"Hmmm,” was all the other man said as he sipped his hot and sour soup with a contemplative air. He looked out at the heavy snow, rapidly accumulating. 

"I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” 

"Flatmates? What are you talking about? Who the bloody hell _are_ you?” 

"Not a serial killer, I assure you, although I do deal with them. Have just finished dealing with one, as a matter of fact. That’s why I’m here on Christmas Eve, mercifully spared from having to make an appearance at the family pile in Hampshire. Let’s see… what else do you need to know? I am a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job. I have a flat just down the street. It occurred to me, considering the snow, that until we can fix that limp you might need a place to stay tonight.” 

John looked out at the snow. Thought about the SIG in his drawer. “That's very kind of you,” he said. 

"I am not _kind_ ,” said Sherlock, exasperation sharpening his voice. “Good God, why does everyone here tonight persist in calling me that?" He huffed. “It's not kindness. It's merely practicality. I need a roommate to share the flat. The last one left after he found a head in the fridge.” 

John actually laughed. “A head?” 

"I am a detective. The head was connected to a case. In fairness I should warn you that I am also a chemist. There may be body parts and chemicals in the course of my cases. My thought was that, as a doctor, such things would not bother you as much as they apparently bothered that idiot. You need somewhere better to live than the undoubtedly pathetic bed-sit you are currently occupying and something better to think about than the SIG Sauer in your bedside drawer.” 

John looked around, lowered his voice and hissed, “How could you _possibly_ know about the gun?" The illegal gun. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Standard Army issue. You have the rather decided look of a man who would not be deterred by a few petty gun laws as well as the rather desperate look of a man who is thinking about using it. It really makes sense for you to at least stay overnight. You can let me know later if you decide to share the flat. Reasonable?” 

John looked at the man across the table. He realized that he hadn’t thought about suicide for…two hours. They had been talking for almost two hours. It was well after one in the morning. 

“Reasonable,” said John. “The SIG’s in the _desk_ drawer, by the way. Surprised that you didn’t know that.” 

“ _Desk_ drawer. It's always something,” Sherlock said, vaguely irritated. "Well, John, shall we go…." He seemed to hesitate. Then he continued. “Shall we go?” 

Strange, but John Watson somehow heard the word “home” in that hesitation. 

“You can get the gun tomorrow,” said Sherlock as they went out into the cold. He tied a blue scarf around his neck and popped up the collar of his long coat. “Might be useful for cases.” 

John looked up at the stars, visible now in the cold sky. He smiled. He refrained from saying, “And God bless us, every one.” But he thought it as he followed the tall man with the dark curls down Baker Street.


End file.
